


Mr. Watson, Come Here

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Pendrell and Courtenay have phone sex.





	Mr. Watson, Come Here

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Mr. Watson -- Come Here by Halrloprillalar

DISTRIBUTION: OK for Archive/X. Elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is allowed.  
RATING: NC17 for M/M sex.  
SPOILERS: none.  
SUMMARY: Pendrell and Courtenay have phone sex.  
DISCLAIMER: Pendrell belongs to CC, 1013, and Fox. Courtenay doesn't.  
THANKS TO: Radclyffe, for great and helpful beta.  
AMBIANCE: Bryan Adams and the Pet Shop Boys.  
MORE FIC: http://come.to/prillalar  
February 1999

* * *

Mr. Watson -- Come Here  
by Halrloprillalar  
<>

Pendrell sat on the couch and hefted the phone in his hand, sucking on the antenna and wondering if he should call. He had the number. Or at least the name of the hotel. But did he have the nerve?

Getting close to eight. Putting the phone on the coffee table, he slid a tape into the VCR and turned on the TV. Then he sat and held the phone again. Stared at it. Felt it grow damp in his palm.

Three days and he was a wreck. Call -- take the initiative. Don't call -- don't be too dependent. Call -- of course he'll want to talk to you. Don't call -- let him wait for a change. Call or don't call -- what's the big deal?

The phone rang and he dropped it on the floor.

Blood hammered in his ears. How many rings should he wait? Three? He grabbed the phone and took a deep breath. Just as the third trill ended, he flicked the switch. "Pendrell."

"Three rings -- very good, Danny Boy."

Damn the man. "Hi Jerry. How's New York?"

"You're sitting on the couch waiting for Babylon 5 to come on. Start recording and turn off the sound."

The rough edge in Courtenay's voice surprised Pendrell, but only for a second. Then he felt a thrill of desire that was very close to fear. He pressed record and then mute, annoyed about the unnecessary time this was going to add to his tape. "OK, done. How's the case going?"

"Get up and pour yourself a drink. Rum. Drink it. Stay on the line."

Without a thought, Pendrell got up and found the rum. He drank too quickly and it choked him. He coughed and sputtered, lips and throat tingling. The heat ran down through his chest, like Vicks, like Buckley's. Like heartburn.

"You still with me, Blue Eyes?"

Sipping cautiously now, Pendrell reached the couch and sat. A Volvo took a hairpin curve across the screen. "Yes." Putting down the glass, he passed a hand across his mouth. It smelled like the sandwich he'd had for supper, tuna and cheddar, pickles and onions.

"Drink up. Carefully."

Why should he? "Aren't you going to tell me about your trip?" He picked up the glass and stared at the deep amber liquid, hating himself briefly before slowly draining it.

"No. Are you with someone?"

"Of course not."

"I was just thinking about that. About you going out and picking someone up at a bar. No names. Just taking him home and fucking him senseless. Or her. And I wanted to hear all about it."

Feeling a little light-headed, Pendrell closed his eyes. His cock was growing heavy with blood and alcohol. Enough rum to make him horny, not enough to cause problems. So to speak. He rested one hand on his abdomen, fingers splayed to just miss brushing the cockhead starting to press against the cloth.

"I'm alone, Jerry." Alone. And nearly senseless.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"No."

"Good. Don't touch yourself yet. Tell me how you feel."

"Aren't you supposed to ask me what I'm wearing?" Was that all the backbone he could muster? Or was giving in easily the true rebellion? He pushed the thoughts aside for analysis in the small hours.

Courtenay laughed and it sounded tinny over the wire. "You're wearing your Quantico sweats over a white t-shirt and boxers."

Grey t-shirt. So there. Pendrell didn't voice that thought.

"OK, Red. Off with the sweatshirt."

"Don't call me 'Red.'"

"Agent Pendrell, then. Take it off. Let's see that white cotton."

"Grey. My t-shirt is grey."

"You never cease to surprise me."

It was like being bitten by mosquitoes. Trivial yet maddening. "Did you just call up to mock me?" Don't hang up. Please.

Another far-away chuckle. "Did you want to fight or get off?"

"Fight." Belligerence, loosened by the alcohol, suggested a few more things to say.

"Too bad."

Pendrell thought he'd choke on that voice. Like the rum, it was dark, strong, harsh. Liberating. He felt his cock begin to nudge up against his fingers. Swallowing, he stripped off his sweatshirt. "It's off."

"Yes." Courtenay paused and the line crackled. "Your right hand. Put your first two fingers into your mouth. Suck them."

As he did so, Pendrell watched the cop show careering closer to its big climax, a program he'd often seen the end of, but never the beginning. His inner fanboy urged him to hang up now, before he missed any of the B5 episode. He closed his eyes instead and rolled his tongue around his fingers, tasting the lingering flavours of fish and dill and onion along the ridges of his fingerprints.

The voice in his ear startled him. "No, Blue Eyes. You use your left hand. Switch the phone to your right."

Understanding is not required. Pendrell shifted the phone and brought his left hand up to his mouth, pushing against his lips before opening to his fingers. Was he supposed to be imagining Courtenay doing this to him? Or Jerry watching him from across the room? His fingernails were hard against his palate.

"Now pull them out, slowly, and smear them down your jaw and neck. Pull back your collar and show me your collarbone."

Watching, then. The trail of saliva only went just past his jaw and he felt it cool and dry as he hooked back his shirt. He stroked his collarbone a little.

"Untuck your shirt but don't pull it up. Palm just below your ribcage. Hold it there."

Pendrell shivered a little at the relative coldness of his hand. The calmness of his breathing surprised him. Should he speak? No. Just wait.

"Small circles. Then larger, spiral out. Don't touch your cock yet."

His own hand tantalized him, teased him. Just let me beat off, already, Jerry. His fingers stroked the skin and hair, bumped over ribs and hipbones. No more calmness. His breath was heavy into the phone.

"Enjoying yourself, Blue Eyes?" Courtenay didn't wait for an answer. "I'm enjoying this too."

Enjoying. Was he? Did that matter?

"Now put your fingers back into your mouth, suck hard."

He did so, biting at the knuckles a little.

"Harder than that."

Dammit, how could Jerry even tell how hard he was sucking? But he sucked harder.

"Ok, now rub your right nipple through your shirt. Keep sucking and rubbing until it's wet. I want to see right through that white cotton."

Grey. "Grey." His fingers traced an angry circle, then stole back into his mouth.

"Grey. Sorry, fashion boy. I'm not used to the new sharper image."

Circle, suck, circle, suck. The shirt chafed against his nipple and he wanted to stop. He swallowed and wondered if Courtenay could hear it.

"Take your sweats off. Don't put the phone down. Leave your boxers on. And hands off your cock."

Pendrell wriggled and tugged and realised he'd left the drawstring tied. Pulling it loose, he twisted and shimmied and hardly got anywhere. A heavy moment of despair sank through him and he almost hung up. But he was too deep in desire, too tipsy, too enthralled to resist. Clamping the phone to his shoulder, he used both hands to skin off the pants and waited to be discovered. "They're off."

"Nice legs, Danny Boy. I like the hair. Run your hand up inside your left thigh. But don't touch your balls or your cock. Up and down until I tell you to stop."

His own hand had never felt so good before. Warm, tender, knowing. The hair was almost soft against his palm. Spreading his fingers, he varied the pressure, firm and nearly squeezing, then feather-light.

"Now, grab your cock. Hold it through your boxers. Is it hard?"

Pendrell's fingers closed around his erection and felt it twitch. Fleetingly, he wondered if it was trying to get away. Was it hard? Yes. Hard as hell and staining the cloth.

"Daniel--" That dark voice again. "Tell me. Is it hard?"

"Yes." Pendrell wondered what Courtenay was doing at that moment. Was he jerking off himself? Lying in bed? Naked? Fully clothed? Probably the last, probably he was calling from some public place, getting off on the mindfuck.

"Rub your fingers just under the rim, all around. Then over the tip."

Slowly, he traced the route set out for him, frustrated with the cloth barrier, using a little extra pressure. His thumb circled his cockhead, spreading the wetness further. He could feel the stupidity setting in, that mental dullness that came with physical keenness.

"It's time, Blue Eyes. Time to jerk it. Do it fast. Do it hard. And don't come until I tell you."

Only obedience. Pendrell's hand took up a steady rhythm, stroking his cock through his boxers. Fast, hard, skin to cotton to skin. The friction began to twist him up inside, to excite him, and to irritate him.

"You look so good. Your cheeks are flushed."

Suddenly, Pendrell was aware his face burned.

"Your head is back against the couch; I can see your throat."

No. But he leaned back without thinking. Unfulfilled desire was humming inside him, in his head and in his gut and spreading out from the base of his spine. Something brushed against his legs.

His eyes blinked open and his heart doubled its already rapid pounding. The cat. Just Macavity. The cat. How could he sit here and masturbate in front of the cat?

"Your chest is rising and falling. Your eyes are closed. And you're glad I'm making you do this."

Yes. His eyelids fell and he let the furry warmth now pressing against his thigh mingle with the other sensations that enveloped him. His hand didn't stop and he could feel orgasm stalking, red-mouthed and hungry, ready to slay him with one blow.

"Daniel, are you close?"

Yes, fuck, yes so close. But his tongue thickened with whatever blood wasn't already swelling his cock fuck yes fuck. He had no idea if he was speaking.

"Don't come." Courtenay's words stung like a lash. "Slow--no, not--Daniel, slow down. Don't come."

Fuck fuck fuck. "I..." His mouth dried and he croaked a little. "I don't think I can..."

"Don't. Open your eyes. Keep your hand on your cock, but slow down. Tell me what's on TV."

Pendrell eased his stroke, slowed it, firm and soothing on the sensitive, almost raw skin. TV. He looked and tried to make some sense of it, tried to make his voice audible. "Uh...it's...it's Vir Cotto and Mr Morden. They're talking." Both his arms ached now.

"Morden...the smiling man, right? He's a cocksucker if I ever saw one."

"Takes one..." The rest of the phrase caught in his throat.

Courtenay laughed. "You're beautiful. But watch them. I bet Morden's thinking about that right now, sliding down onto his knees, giving that fat geek the blowjob of his life. Don't you think so?"

He could almost see it, would see it if he closed his eyes, the serpent-smiling man dropping down right there in the bar in front of the protesting Vir, sucking him stupid. Could see those dangerous bright-dark eyes and then the dark hair changed to blond and it was Courtenay in front of him, hot mouth on Pendrell's cock for the very first time. No, fuck, no he couldn't wait much longer, couldn't wait...

"Ok, let it go. Come now."

For a sickening moment, Pendrell thought he wouldn't be able to, that he'd spend the rest of his life at the peak of arousal but never able to get off. Then he was coming, cock leaping under his fingers, breath hissing out into the phone, no words. Macavity jumped down from the couch.

"All done, Danny Boy?"

A few deep breaths and then he could answer. "Yes. Thank you." He paused, uncertain. "So, tell me about the case."

"I have to go. I'll call when I get back."

"Wait, I--" But he was talking to the dial tone.

Stabbing the phone off, Pendrell tossed it into the corner of the couch. He shivered suddenly. Someone walking over his grave. It was too much effort to get dressed, so he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself. Gooseflesh covered his legs while the sticky semen cooled between his skin and boxers.

The TV still flickered at him and he turned it off too. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back against the couch. This was so fucked up. So fucking fucked up and there was nothing he could do. Except wait until Babylon 5 was over so he could watch the tape. He sat perfectly still and tried to relax.

His head began to ache.

F I N I S

What did you think? I want to know. 

(And, please, someone tell me I'm not the only one who harboured slashy thoughts about Vir and Morden.)

        Mr. Morden: What do YOU want?

        Vir Cotto: I'd like to live just long enough to be there  
        when they cut off your head and stick it on a pike as a  
        warning to the next ten generations that some favours  
        come with too high a price. I want to look up into your  
        lifeless eyes and wave like this. [waves] Can you and  
        your associates arrange that for me, Mr. Morden?

        -- "In the Shadow of Z'ha'dum."


End file.
